Джорж Гордон Байрон. Стансы к Августе. (Though the day...)

I

Though the day of my Destiny's over,
       &nbspAnd the star of my Fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover
       &nbspThe faults which so many could find;
Though thy Soul with my grief was acquainted,
       &nbspIt shrunk not to share it with me,
And the Love which my Spirit hath painted
       &nbspIt never hath found but in Thee.

II

Then when Nature around me is smiling,
       &nbspThe last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,
       &nbspBecause it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
       &nbspAs the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,
       &nbspIt is that they bear me from Thee.

III

Though the rock of my last Hope is shivered,
       &nbspAnd its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is delivered
       &nbspTo Pain—it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:
       &nbspThey may crush, but they shall not contemn;
They may torture, but shall not subdue me;
       &nbsp'Tis of Thee that I think—not of them.

IV

Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
       &nbspThough woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
       &nbspThough slandered, thou never couldst shake;
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
       &nbspThough parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
       &nbspNor, mute, that the world might belie.

V


Yet I blame not the World, nor despise it,
       &nbspNor the war of the many with one;
If my Soul was not fitted to prize it,
       &nbsp'Twas folly not sooner to shun:
And if dearly that error hath cost me,
       &nbspAnd more than I once could foresee,
I have found that, whatever it lost me,
       &nbspIt could not deprive me of Thee.

VI

From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,
       &nbspThus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that what I most cherished
       &nbspDeserved to be dearest of all:
In the Desert a fountain is springing,
       &nbspIn the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
       &nbspWhich speaks to my spirit of Thee.